Disgrace
by jscwriter
Summary: Jess, the son of Ronald and Hermione Weasley, goes to Hogwarts. He makes a choice there that will effect his parents, himself, and the rest of the world. Part 1 out of 7. T for safety.
1. Intro

February 16, 2010

Rain splattered against the window of the Weasley residence – more specifically, the room of the first Weasley child. Newspaper clippings covered the desk messily, some ready to fall to the floor at the slightest provocation.

Jesse sat against the window, face pressed up against the glass, brown hair disheveled and messy, mouth open at and angle. He snored almost loudly, chest rising and falling with his breath. The pane against which he leaned had a thick fog where he expelled his air.

At the slightest disturbance of the door, his eyes snapped open, and he sat up straight hurriedly. The papers that had been so perilously teetering on the edge of his desk dropped from the wind generated from the young Weasley's awakening.

'Dad?' he asked, voice exited. A small figure stepped through the door and walked over to the desk. 'Oh… mom.'

'What's wrong?' Hermione asked, sitting on the spare chair he kept near his desk.

'I was waiting for dad, and he's not home.'

Hermione nodded, for no obvious reason except to affirm his statement. 'I know he's been gone a long time…'

'Five days; I've kept count on my calendar.' Mrs. Weasley glanced over at Jesse's wall, examining the numerous pictures and notes tacked to a wall – a moving scenic calendar (the current month was represented by a windblown desert, a large contrast from the weather outside.

'I know. I miss him as much as you – and worry about him just as much,' she added, cutting him off.

'How do you know?'

'Huh?'

'How do you know? You have to worry more, you're the wife – it's like your job.' Hermione smiled and flicked him at the comment. Jesse remained static. 'I just need him to finish teaching me how to toss around a Quaffle.' Mrs. Weasley shifted himself onto Jesse's bed and motioned for him to come too. He obeyed, and they sat together on his bed. Hermione held her 10-year-old boy in her arms and rested her chin on his head.

'Can I tell you a story?' Jesse nodded and snuggled closer to his mom. Hermione lit up her wand with a quick spell and set it on the bedside. 'Did I ever tell you about the real chess game your dad played when he was just a bit older than you?'

'Yes, you told it about a month ago.'

'How about the story about when Uncle Harry outsmarted a dragon?'

'Yes, Harry told it to me a while ago.'

'How about…'

'Could you tell me a story about Voldemort?' Hermione was caught far off guard with his question.

'What?'

'Can you tell me a story about Harry and Voldemort? I mean, you said Harry fought him in his 5th year – could you tell that story?'

'No, not tonight.' Jesse stuck his lip out at his mother. 'Can I make you a deal?' Her son nodded. 'I'll tell you the story the day you go to Durstrang.'

'But that's in… uh… 6 months!'

'I could make it longer…'

'Deal,' Jesse said.

'Good. So… did I ever tell you how bad your dad used to be at Quiddich?'

'But – I thought dad was always good at Quiddich…'

'Not always. Well, it was at the start of our sixth year, and Uncle Harry had been made captain of the Quiddich team…'


	2. First Person, Second Priority

**A.N: I am influenced HEAVILY by James Patterson, mainly in the writing style, so my chapters are about two pages and I update frequently. Like, every day. Have fun. Review if there's something odd or inconsistent.**

**JLUI**

I noticed something interesting, lately. It was after reading a book about a murderer. It was fiction, and the interesting part was this: the book was written in first person – you know, 'I' type – and it made you feel sorry for the main character. If his story had been told in the normal way, everyone would have hated him and not read the book. But, in this case, it was in first person, and it seemed like he was a real person. I actually felt sorry for the man in the book.

I'm not a murderer, but I'm still going to tell my story in first person. Just in case.

I just winked, but I guess you can't tell. Actions, like descriptions, wasted on the reader.

Hi, my name is Jesse Weasley, though I go by Jess most of the time. I'm 11, and I'm the son of Hermione and Ron Weasley. I listed Hermione's name first because, while my dad might go to all the parties and speak for the family, my mum is the real boss. My mum says that she just pressures. My dad says that my mum made it clear early and often that he was only a spokesman. My mum is happy, so my dad is happy, so I'm happy, so it does seem like she is the boss. And she's a girl. Weird.

I'm about four and a half feet tall, which is too short, in my opinion, and I have weird black hair. Mum explained genetics to me once, that the mum's dad's hair would most closely resemble the mine. Well, that's fine. I once thought that I got my black hair from Harry, because he was my uncle, but mum explained that that wasn't possible. I guess I have my grandfather's hair. So that's my hair _and_ my name I get from him. Interesting.

My sister Miranda's hair is red, though, so go figure. Anyway, I have black hair and blue eyes, like my dad. They're really pale – my mum calls them amazingly blue, my dad calls them cool, but weird. That would explain why mum writes dad's presentations. And Harry's; he just smiled and said that they looked nice.

My parents are extremely famous, much more so than the normal person. They've been on about every magazine cover everywhere. My father even has a Wizarding magazine sent from America, and he, Hermione, and uncle Harry are on the front of it. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny travel a lot, speaking at places. Harry works for the ministry when he's not traveling. Of course, Harry isn't the only uncle I have. I have uncle Fred, George, Charlie, and Bill; there were more once, but they all died before I was born. Fred and George are hilarious. George is married to Aunt Angelina, but Fred isn't married. George says he's jealous of Fred sometimes. Angelina laughs and slaps him after that. Sometimes she slaps George accidentally.

My mum is a teacher at Hogwarts; she has been for a long time (about five years). She teaches Charms; she's really good at it. I'm going to Hogwarts this year – I'm so exited, I can't wait. My dad already took me to go get my wand. It's a 13-inch yew wand with a dragon Heartstring inside (it's supposed to be good for charms and hexes). The wand itself is a shiny white color – it's got a very nice handle and a slightly spiraled… uh, what do you call it? The not-hilt.

When I first told uncle Harry about my wand and what it was made of, he looked nervous for a second, and then smiled and bent down. He told me that when I went to Hogwarts, when I came back and if I had good grades he would show me something interesting about my wand.

I just can't wait. Hogwarts can't come soon enough.

The alarm went off, jolting me awake. I jumped like the wuss I am and whipped my head around, startled. I caught sight of the clock – 8:12 – and my eyes widened. Wishing Hogwarts wouldn't come just so fast, I leaped out of my bed, silenced the alarm, and pulled some Muggle clothes on. They felt odd compared to my normal robes, but they did seem to hold warmth, which was a good thing.

My room was on the top floor of our two-story house. The… royalties my parents saved for, oh, what was it, _saving the bloody world_, ah, yes, right, were enough to sustain us, but my mum taught at Hogwarts anyways. She said that it was because she liked to teach. I think she just likes to be the boss.

My dad was standing at the foot of the staircase, just about ready to call up to me. A pleased expression crossed his face when he learned that he wouldn't have to shout.

'Are you all ready?' Ron asked. Jess grinned and darted up the stairs, grabbed the wand sitting on his mantelpiece, and shot back down the stairs. 'Okay. You have money?'

'Check.'

'Wand?'

'Check.'

'Robes?' Jess held out a small bag in which his robes were.

'Check.'

'Okay, Hermione already took all your luggage to school when she left earlier this week,' Ron said, said, talking mostly to himself. 'Yeah, I think that covers it. Come on, let's go.' Ron held my arm, and I hung to it tightly. Suddenly, I felt as if I were being pressed into a can of dental floss. It wasn't painful, but it was extremely uncomfortable.

A second later we appeared outside King's Cross Station. I watched as a small bit of my hair fell to the ground in front of me.

'Oops,' Dad said. 'Must've not been concentrating…'

'I still have my arms, don't worry.' We raced through the station, and reached Platform Nine by 8:30. Ron grabbed my arms and lightly pulled me through the brick barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Fourths. I glanced around, gaping.

It wasn't that big, but the fact that I just walked through a brick wall into an invisible station still was pretty shocking. The train was waiting there, doors open. The platform was pretty empty, as a lot of people had already gone onto the train. Dad hugged me and smiled.

'Have a great time, okay?' I nodded, a tad annoyed. 'Watch out for Binns, he might turn you into a ghost.'

'Dad,' I said, grinning, 'just because goldfish have longer attention spans than you doesn't mean I do.'

'Watch the cheek,' he said, clapping me on the shoulder, 'or McGonnagle'll have your head.'

'Or mum,' I added, walking toward the train. 'See you later.'

Ron waved as I boarded the Hogwarts train. I stepped into the hallway, which seemed eerily empty. I suddenly wished that I were back at the house with mum and dad, as opposed to being in a big train with no friends. I'd even go with my little sister Miranda to Grandma's than be on the Hogwarts train.

No use though, I wouldn't learn Apperation for another 6 years. I never knew how lonely a hallway could feel, if only because our house always felt so… vibrant, I guess, with all the company my parents liked to keep. But here, barely a sound reached through the compartments, and those that did seemed creepier than the wind rustling leaves at night.

Not a very good first impression, if I may say so myself.

The train started with a lurch, and as it did, a boy with dark black hair strode past, and cast a glance at me, and I stopped and smiled.

'Remus?' My cousin, named after my uncle's good friend, apparently a prefect. 'Hi!' Remus smiled, red hair looking so much better than mine.

'Hey, Jess. Looking for a place to go?' I nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed. I felt the train pick up speed and lurched toward the back slightly. 'Okay, just pick a compartment that has people who look nice in it and go in. You're great, you should make friends in no time.'

'Thanks,' I said.

'No problem. Hey, I need to be going, someone called because of a mess down at the other side of the train, but it was great to see you anyways, yeah?' He clapped me on the shoulder and walked off, wild hair clipping the top of the carriage divider. He was incredibly tall for a sixth year, a trait I did not seem to have received from my father. Bugger.

I walked down the hall, trying to find a nice carriage. I was tempted to enter the one where Remus was, but decided against it when I saw that the compartment was full. Proceeding on, I felt very lonely when I patrolled the halls for myself.

It was pure dumb luck that I smacked right into someone when I did. I fell to the ground, clutching my forehead, attempting to rid myself of the sudden headache that struck.

Did I consider it luck? No, not at all. But it was.

I looked up and saw the person I had barreled into. She was about my height, most likely a first year, which had blond hair. That was all I could tell; her hair hung in front of her face, obscuring any views I may have been able to have of her visage.

My mum taught me that word. I think it means face. It does, right?


End file.
